|
|
If it's any consolation, Rothkoid, Christmas has suddenly become more hassle-y. Okay, so two days ago, saying "Yeah, if you're working, I'll cook Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve" seemed like a really good idea. Now the potatoes are in the oven, and I've just had to phone my mum to find out exactly what the fuck you do with parsnips, and I'm dreading midnight when (by my calculations anyway) the veggie fillet things have to go in. And the guy who had promised to help me has just gone home (fair enough, he was working last night and has been awake for about 36 hours, and he did come to the supermarket with me, and he also got me "Society" on DVD, so I'm SO not dissing the guy).
I have a whole new respect for my mother, having managed to do Christmas for our whole family every year until we were old enough to get the fuck out of Somerset.
I don't think being pissed is helping any, though.
Merry Christmas again, all o' yez. |
|
|